


be still my foolish heart

by IceEckos12



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5 times crowley and aziraphale were stupidly domestic and the 1 time when they were not, Ambiguous Relationship, Gen, Introspection, M/M, Mentions of blood and injuries, can be read as a relationship or platonic soulmates, post failed apocalypse, these parts are easily skippable however, you choose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 05:52:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19387834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceEckos12/pseuds/IceEckos12
Summary: What all this boils down to is that the actual apocalypse, which was meant to be a very large, grand event with fire storms and murder and all sorts of dramatic gestures, ended up being a footnote on the end of a very short paragraph in the back of a slim book about two mystical beings who fucked up God’s ineffable plan with the efficiency of idiots who didn’t know any better.After everything is said and done, Crowley and Aziraphale move in together.(Or, five times Crowley and Aziraphale were stupidly domestic and the one time when they were not.)





	be still my foolish heart

**Author's Note:**

> Note - there's a brief mention of violence and references to torture in the +1. If that's not your cup of tea, then feel free to skip it. 
> 
> Also please note, I'm American. If someone sees Crowley or Aziraphale say something aggressively American please point it out to me!

1.

When one considered it, the actual apocalypse and prevention thereof was merely a terrifying blip in the monotony of everyday life. 

The way most remember it, they were going to get groceries on one day, and then the next  _ oh my fucking god that’s Atlantis!  _ And then the next day,  _ did anyone hear about those aliens? Does anyone know if that was true?  _ And then,  _ holyshitnonono the M25 is on FIRE.  _ And then the next day they realized that they forgot to buy jam at the grocery store and got very annoyed about having to make the extra trip when they’d already gone earlier that week. 

Even to Crowley and Aziraphale, who had spent the last eleven years attempting to stop the apocalypse (and had failed to do anything relevant, but that was neither here nor there), this was but a very small fraction of time. What was eleven years to six millennia? They had both wasted far more time than that with frivolities. _ Crowley _ had spent a good portion of one hundred years sleeping. 

What all this boils down to is that the actual apocalypse, which was meant to be a very large, grand event with fire storms and murder and all sorts of dramatic gestures, ended up being a footnote on the end of a very short paragraph in the back of a slim book about two mystical beings who fucked up God’s ineffable plan with the efficiency of idiots who didn’t know any better. 

It was bothering Crowley. Just a bit.

“My dear,” Aziraphale said primly, shifting his knees, which were trapped beneath Crowley’s socked feet. “Could you stop thinking so loudly? I’m trying to read. It’s very distracting.”

Crowley pulled his toes back and stretched, let the top of his socked feet brush the back of Aziraphale’s book. He smirked when the angel twitched and lowered the book on top of Crowley’s ankles with a frown, arresting his movement. 

“Don’t you think it was too easy, though?” He asked. 

“What was too easy?” Aziraphale asked absentmindedly. 

Crowley let out a disgusted sound, and his words tripped sibilant off his tongue. “Ssstopping the apocalypse, I mean.”

Aziraphale gave Crowley a hard stare across the couch. “You drove your car through a circle of  _ hellfire,  _ Crowley. My bookshop burned down and I was  _ discorporated.  _ You call that easy?” And then he lifted the book up again until his nose was buried in it. 

“It happened in a span of a  _ day,  _ angel.” Crowley protested, feeling like Aziraphale wasn’t seeing the whole of it. “Just a day to thwart the apocalypse? Isn’t that too easy? Don’t you think—”

He interrupted himself with a squawk of surprise when Aziraphale huffed and gently rapped his ankles with the book. When he spoke, however, his voice was deceptively gentle, deceptively sad. His words touched the back of Crowley’s neck like the press of a warm hand. “My dear, you worry too much.”

Crowley opened his mouth once, twice, as though he were thinking of arguing. Then it snapped shut. He removed his sunglasses from his face and rubbed at his golden eyes, lips downturned. Aziraphale watched him, face still terrible with sympathy. Understanding. 

“Of course,” He said finally, and put his glasses back on. Turned his face to the side, and closed his eyes to take a nap. 

2.

Several weeks after the apocalypse, Aziraphale got Crowley a present. 

“What’s this?” Crowley asked, staring down at the small...thing in Aziraphale’s hands. 

“Well…” Aziraphale looked down and stared at the plant as well. “It’s a plant, my dear. An African Violet. You like plants, don’t you?” And then he looked up and smiled hopefully at Crowley. 

Crowley had two thoughts in the span of one second: 

First, African Violets were finicky plants, and far too delicate for Crowley’s tastes. If you shouted at them they just shriveled up and died out of sheer fright, and even if you didn’t shout they got sick easily and needed specific care. Crowley had tried to take care of a few in the nineties, failed miserably, and had vowed to never touch one again. 

Second, he could not let such a thing happen to this plant. Aziraphale had that expression on his face, the hopeful one that ran parallel to faith, and Crowley didn’t want to do anything to dampen it. 

Crowley took the plant. “It’s perfect, angel. I’ll….” He hesitated. “I’ll make sure it’s well cared for.” 

Seeing Aziraphale beam like that was well worth the little white lie he had told. 

_ But really _ , he thought later as he stared down the African Violet sitting on the table in front of him,  _ was it that much of a lie?  _ Just because he had no idea how to actually take care of a plant didn’t mean he couldn’t. Or wouldn’t do a good job. It just required some….further research. 

The plant was blooming pale, ruffled yellow flowers, the petals shimmering like they’d been dusted with glitter. It seemed healthy enough, though the soil had been extremely dry when he’d touched it.  _ Are the leaves supposed to be fuzzy, though…? _

He turned to glare at the other plants in the hallway.  _ But first, so no one gets any ideas…. _

Crowley picked up the violet by the potted base and carried it into the center of the hall where all the other plants resided. They began to tremble even before he started speaking, probably because of the dangerous look he was leveling them. The one that promised the wood chipper if they didn’t all behave. 

“You see this one?” Crowley hissed, pointing at the small African Violet, which was still obliviously emitting cheerful waves at the world around it. “This one is  _ especially  _ a problem child, which means it needssss…” He let his tongue flick out. “ _ Sssspecial attention.”  _

If plants had the capacity to do so, these ones would’ve shit their pants. 

“Aren’t you all lucky that you’re not this plant right here?” Crowley crooned at them, before sweeping away toward his bedroom, leaving a mass of terrified plants in his wake.  _ Mission accomplished.  _

Once in the bedroom, he set the potted plant down on the table and gave it another hard stare. It seemed to stare back, innocent. 

“Just because you were a present from Aziraphale does  _ not  _ mean you are exempt from discipline.” He informed it tartly, because he had the strangest feeling he was slowly but surely losing an uphill battle he hadn’t even realized he’d been fighting in. 

The plant just waved back. 

3.

Aziraphale watched Crowley out in the garden, stalking from plant to plant, his forked tongue flicking out menacingly every couple of seconds. A trowel was brandished in his hand, his expression stony and grim. It was a sharp contrast to his bare feet, the old blue jeans rolled up to his ankles, his gleeful yellow eyes for once not hiding behind his sunglasses. 

And Aziraphale mused,

How did one quantify the love that one immortal being had for another immortal being?

The answer was that you didn’t quantify it. Or, well, you couldn’t. Because a word like friendship couldn’t quite encapsulate the depth of emotion shared, love too cheap for a connection yet to be defined by either party. Has anyone ever ever had a bond as deep and as strong as he and Crowley? 

No. 

Fallen had known each other for that long; angels longer still. But to say that they had a friendship, to say that they had even a modicum of the bond that Crowley and Aziraphale have had since the Garden of Eden, that would be a lie. 

Crowley knew that Aziraphale gave up the flaming sword because Eve was pregnant and they were both defenseless and it was probably the right thing to do. He also knew that beneath Aziraphale’s goody-two-shoes exterior was a note of righteous annoyance at the Almighty, who had placed the apple tree of Good and Evil in the center of the garden and expected curious hands not to pick and eat the fruit. The sword was a small rebellion against an unjust thing which he could not argue against. 

In the same way, Aziraphale knew that Crowley convinced the humans to eat the apple because head office told him to stir up trouble. He also knew that Crowley genuinely felt bad about the whole thing, because it was only the  _ first offense,  _ he didn’t  _ mean  _ to get the couple kicked out of the Garden. He knew that Crowley was frustrated and angry not because he was a demon, but because now the whole world thought him capable of doing things like causing the first offense or the Spanish Inquisition or biochemical warfare. 

In fact, it would not be unfair to say that Crowley and Aziraphale knew each other better than they knew themselves. 

Yet, theirs was not a relationship of lust or passion, although that is not to say that Aziraphale would be  _ opposed  _ to trying that sort of thing, if it were with Crowley. But it’s not necessary; Aziraphale would still love Crowley the same whether they were together in that way or not. 

_ That’s really the whole of it,  _ Aziraphale thought as Crowley swaggered into the house, trailing mud and bugs on their pristine floors, which he had miracled clean just that morning.  _ Whatever it is I’m feeling toward him won’t change, regardless of how it is being experienced.  _

Crowley’s eyes fell onto him and abruptly brightened; a pleased smile played at the edges of his normally gloomy face. “Hey there, angel,” He said and sprawled out onto the couch with sinuous grace. Aziraphale was helpless to do anything but smile back. 

(He’d get annoyed about the floor later.)

4.

It wasn’t as though Crowley disapproved of Aziraphale getting friendly with the locals, in theory. One might even consider it a good idea, now that they had settled down in one place together. 

It meant things like fresh fruits and vegetables from the market whenever they felt like it. It meant that Aziraphale knew all the best haunts within driving distance of the city, whether they be restaurants or beaches. It meant that Aziraphale got to get his ancient book obsession out of his system with the local book club rather than with Crowley, who frankly found it pretty boring. So that was all good. 

Unfortunately it also meant things like visitors coming to call, which was...not so good. 

Like the time there was a knock on their door and Aziraphale wasn’t home. And Crowley knew that he had to get the door because Aziraphale had  _ warned  _ him that someone might be coming over but he hadn’t taken the angel  _ seriously… _

_ It’s just a human,  _ Crowley told himself, and opened the door.

“Oh, hello!” A short, plump woman said, peering up at him curiously. “Is Mr. Fell around?”

But before he could get a word in edgewise she said, “You must be that nice young man of his, the one who makes the garden look so clean. Mr. Fell is so closed-mouth about you whenever we try to ask, he’s very adamant about your privacy, but I’ve been wanting to ask what you do to those clematises to make them grow so well?”

“Uh, the.” Crowley paused, feeling as though he’d just been hit by a very friendly car. “Clematises?”

“But of course you might want to keep your secrets,” She tapped her nose and winked at him slyly, and just kept  _ plowing on _ . “Understandable. I know I’m  _ never  _ giving up the secret on how to grow prize-winning tomatoes, though perhaps I’ll have a new challenger this year?”

She sent him a gleaming, challenging smile that was one facial twitch away from a glare. 

“Well, uh, perhaps.” Crowley said uncertainly, shifting from foot to foot, wondering why she kept asking questions if she wasn’t actually planning on letting him speak. The dirt on the floor ground uncomfortably into his heels. 

“Excellent!” The woman said, and then handed him the pie which had been balanced on one hand. “Here’s that pie for Mr. Fell. Tell him thank you for the debate last week, it was positively  _ thrilling.”  _

Crowley took the pie and clutched onto it for dear life. “I’ll be sure to pass along the message.”

She smiled at him, patted his hand, and strode off. Crowley retreated into the house and quickly shut the door, feeling vaguely violated. 

Crowley related (read: complained) the story to Aziraphale later, though he may have doctored the parts where he stammered like a schoolboy so it was more flattering. Aziraphale was much less sympathetic than he’d hoped he would be, however. In fact, he was  _ laughing _ .

“Why didn’t you just,” Aziraphale wiggled his fingers at Crowley between giggles, a gesture he assumed meant  _ brainwash her.  _

“Because you  _ told  _ me to answer the door and everything, I couldn’t just—“ Crowley wiggled his fingers back furiously, cheeks beginning to burn.  _ A bastard indeed!  _ He thought tartly, then harrumphed and stalked toward the bedroom. He hadn’t told Aziraphale about it so he could get  _ laughed  _ at. 

“My dear, wait!” Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s arm before he could get too far, swiping away tears with his other hand. “I’m sorry. You’re right, of course, I never should’ve set poor Miss Etty and—and her  _ pie—“ _

Crowley let out a noise that was half hiss, half scream, and tore away from the still-laughing angel. 

(It took three days of the silent treatment before Aziraphale finally, genuinely apologized for laughing at Crowley so hard. Crowley had held onto his anger for about two seconds before giving in, because Aziraphale just looked so sad, and he missed him anyway. 

About two months later Crowley entered his gorgeous tomatoes into the contest and won by a single point over Mrs. Etty, who was delighted to have some real competition at last and apoplectic at having been beaten.

Crowley only had himself to blame. He had, after all, started vegetable competitions in the first place.)

5.

Aziraphale liked food. 

Aziraphale liked a great many things including tweed and certain types of classical music. He liked feeding ducks and long walks on the beach, and of course his literature. But if there was one thing that he thought humans had done absolutely right, it was that they had figured out a way to make something delicious out of very few ingredients. 

Take sushi. It was rice, raw fish, and seaweed, and it brought joy to Aziraphale’s life every time he ate it. Just three ingredients! Not to mention finger sandwiches. Pie. Garlic bread.  _ Crepes.  _

So it was with this in mind that Aziraphale turned to Crowley one day in the middle of dinner at the Ritz and said, “Crowley, I want to learn how to cook.”

Crowey paused, frowning. He peered over his sunglasses at Aziraphale, as though he were having trouble ascertaining whether or not the angel was serious. Which he was, perfectly. 

“You know you don’t need to learn how to cook, angel.” He said finally, a note of befuddlement hiding beneath his condescending words. “You’re an  _ angel,  _ for...whoever’s sake, just miracle something up.”

Aziraphale politely chose to ignore the tone of voice. “Yes, but it’s not the  _ same.  _ There’s just something so much more satisfying about knowing it was made with one’s hands.” 

Crowley leaned back in his chair, mulling this over, though his shoulders were oddly tense. He seemed to be taking Aziraphale seriously now, at the very least. Then he said, “Well...alright, if you insist. Where are you going to learn? Paris?” He made a face as though he’d just tasted something foul. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Crowley,” Aziraphale was quick to reassure. “There’s tutorials and things you can buy. And YouTube videos. I’m sure it can’t be too difficult to pick up on my own.”

The demon’s shoulders lowered, his posture relaxing into something more natural.  _ Oh,  _ Aziraphale realized in amazement,  _ he thought I was going to go off to Paris and leave him on his own.  _ Somehow, the thought that Crowley would’ve been unhappy at his absence sent a bolt of warmth through his chest. He beamed at Crowley, who was fixing him with a look that was as fond as his face ever got. 

“Well, alright then.” Crowley said, nodding. 

Unfortunately for the both of them, cooking was not as easy as Aziraphale had originally assumed. 

Aziraphale peered down into the pot of stew he’d been making, wondering where it had all gone wrong. He’d thought that stew would be an easy enough place to start, and both he and Crowley liked it. It had just made sense. But it was making far less sense  _ now.  _ Thank god Crowley was causing mischief on the town, he’d never let him live this down. 

He turned and squinted at the recipe. It had insisted that he brown the meat first and cook the onions and garlic, but that had all seemed so fiddly, so he’d skipped it and just tossed everything in. And so  _ what  _ if he’d added far more salt than was called for? He  _ liked  _ things salty. But now the meat looked soggy and the dish had very little flavor besides ‘salt’. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have gone so far off book the first time he tried to make something. 

The second time Aziraphale tried making something, Crowley was in the kitchen with him, sitting on the counter and watching him with bright, amused yellow eyes. He swilled the wine in his glass carelessly as Aziraphale bustled to and from, sleeves rolled up, trying to create something edible out of the utter mess he was making. 

After the fifth chuckle, Aziraphale turned to the demon and snapped, “You could  _ do  _ something other than sit there and drink, you know.”

“Alright.” Crowley set his glass aside, slipped to the floor, and ambled over to the onions browning on the stove. He observed them for a moment, adjusted the heat, and then began poking at them with the wooden spoon. Aziraphale watched him for a second longer just to make sure he wasn’t about to do anything nefarious, before turning back to chopping carrots. 

Crowley was actually a decent assistant chef, if prone to stopping in the middle of what he was doing for wine. He stirred the onions without complaint, measured out cups of broth and little spoonfuls of starch, and watched the pot when Aziraphale headed into the garden for some herbs. 

When they finished, they both stared down dubiously into the pot. 

“It looks alright.” Crowley said. 

“It does, doesn’t it?” Aziraphale asked, feeling absurdly proud. “Shall we try it?”

Crowley wordlessly poked the mixture with his spoon and lifted it to his lips. Aziraphale quickly followed with his own spoon. They stood there for a second, slurping on their spoons. 

“Well,” Crowley said. “It’s edible.”

Coming from Crowley, that was practically a glowing complement. Aziraphale beamed. 

Then, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, Crowley said, “Maybe next time I won’t have to miracle the sugar you added back into salt.”

Aziraphale gaped at him for a second, horrified, then slapped a hand over his face and laughed helplessly. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I've completed something in a while, and it feels really good. expect updates for my other fics soon, i've got the writing bug back!! 
> 
> Also this is a late birthday gift for my friend. I LOVE YOU RACHEL SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG.


End file.
